AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Be willing, heart of mine,” she whispered as Mircalla ran a finger on her lips, tracing the edges with a taste of her future. A vampire she was to become. She bared her teeth in a feral snarl and sucked on the skin. A gush of blood washed her face as she pinned Cecilia with the back of her hand. She licked the wound and lingered on the jagged edges, searching for all the stolen moments in her life. The longings of her heart, the murderous threshold that twisted her stomach and grew inside her like an uprooted tree.
A sharp pang surged within her. The pain of finally giving in after refusing what had been brewing in her heart for a long time. Ever since she met Mircalla, necessity became trifling. It was another burden pulling her down like a tidal wave, keeping her afar from the shore.
What she swore to protect came back to taunt her in violent ways; the Vertigo legacy turned out to be smoke and brittle bones nestled in the arms of a cursed, indifferent husband.
Who could blame her if she willed herself into another existence? Who could dare to question the flare of her anger against this town and its people—who, in the naked glory of her husband, consumed her very being and tossed it aside, spewing out curses and gossip?
“Feel it,” Mircalla instructed, patting her back and whispering in her ear with a wide grin that gleamed on the pointed edges of her teeth. “Does it not feel good? Filling yourself with pleasures unspoken and undreamed of? You waited and waited. Fatally wounded inside, chained to the same man that rejected you, aiding and abetting others to harass you. But I’m here now and all your lusts shall be named and satiated, if you want so.”
She planted a kiss on Valerie’s forehead. Heat rose to Valerie’s cheeks as Mircalla’s chest crushed against hers and Valerie was surprised she didn’t crumble into pieces.
It took some time for her to understand, as Mircalla pushed a lock of hair from her face, that she would lapse into agony and die an awful death, no matter how it may strike, because Mircalla was the life-blood, not promised but earned with toil, that turned her thoughts and courage rapaciously to herself—cruelly flung into the jaws of oblivion, for such confines Vertigo Peaks vindicated—that, in spite of the stirring malice of those blood-thirsty townspeople, she was still tender at heart. For her—the exquisite Mircalla Karnstein.
“I love you,” Valerie said.
28
Mircalla’s flight was declaredan indication of her crimes and the screams in the frigid air found their way back to her. Valerie had little to protect herself from the stinging gusts of wind as she was carried away by a throng of hands that towered over her. They were shredding her gown, spitting on her face. Red with Cecilia’s blood her hands shone for a moment, and then she laid on the snow in the moonlight.
She was full of blood. Its undulating waves wrapped around her limbs, layered and deep, like the twisted roots of a tree. She felt weightless, bearing the nature of an apparition under the mist of the peaks like a prize: superlatively powerful and full of love. Valerie did not know what spell Mircalla cast upon the room, limbs frozen in horror, unable to move or scream, but she was grateful. Even if she wouldn’t see her again, she was grateful.
When she arrived at Vertigo Peaks hours later, it was just before dawn. The wind had turned and the world was broken. The sounds of drums and lips moving and breaths grumbling floated in the air, which blotted her memory. She found herself walking in a circle with the distraught Vertigo Peaks at its center, its dark stones and warped wooden floors barely hidden from view as the edge, the curl of flames shimmered off the walls and bathed the dawn in a deep radiance.
“Run! Save your life!” It was the doctor stumbling out of the manor-house, a leather-bound tome in hand, choking back a cough. Pillars of flame licked at the day’s earlier sunlight, casting grotesque shadows that danced on the stricken physician’s face. Valerie glimpsed remnants of a familiar warmth but did not dwell on it. Another blast showered pieces of paned windows; a lone sentinel pointing to the billowing smoke. The doctor disappeared without another word, plunging back into the searing maw of the house.
Valerie heard his boots crunching on fallen plaster, his gloved hand brushing soot-blackened portraits lined like persecutors on the wall. She had relied on her hearing no more than a schoolgirl, but this was the first time her delicate ears commanded the violent scene before her, alert as wild creatures slithering through grass.
She found her husband on his knees under the window of his study. The heat was oppressive here, the air thick with the cloying scent of burning wood and singed flesh. Her eyes were stinging with tears and she saw his legs bent in a strange way through a cloud of smoke. The glow of his hands isolated a skull in all its jagged lines and corners, more shadow than a substance, between his burnt frilled collars. He blew a low, painful moan, like a lamenting song, and banging his head on the bone. She found a half-written letter by his side, the ink smudged by tears, addressed to him from Emery Vertigo. It was the letter that Valerie had taken from his study and forgotten about. It laid there like a cracked crucible of their marriage.
He turned his glassy, unseeing eyes to her when she touched the skull, as if in a dream. Valerie watched the patch of light flit across his face like a magpie. Behind the hollow of the bleached skull, the face of her husband flamed, as he crumpled the hems of her skirt in his fists.
“What have you done?” She asked in disgust. The man was lying on his back, rigid and writhing like a worm, staring up at the skull.
“I can’t take this pain any longer! Here—here, take her! I can’t stand it! Yes! Yes, I killed her. I have nothing left to give! You fool! She burns my heart—Ah! Father, do not forsake me. I did what you asked!”
Valerie wished he would stop. There was a strange sound in her ears like heels dancing on floorboards. Louder it became, louder and enthralling. Meanwhile, Vertigo Peaks throbbed; a single, ongoing groan; its sharp roof teetering on the edge of collapse. And Ethan was still talking. Faster and faster, as if possessed by the spirit of his dead sister.
“I loved her! The house—my father—warned me. It claims me. The curse repeats itself. Look! Look at me. I’m falling apart—Hold it, do not let it go! My father wants the house—I want my sister—I love her.” He picked himself off the frozen ground, waving the paper before her eyes. “He said it would be me—the legacy, the bloodline. Dog-hearted fiend! Ah, let me be mad! Where has he been but inside me? He held my hands. No blood was shed. Strangled into silence. But why does it not stop? I did what he asked!”
He floundered through the deep snow, beating the sides of his head with his fists and weeping uncontrollably.
“For God’s sake, end his misery!”
The doctor collapsed next to his friend, gasping for breath as the salvaged artifacts scattered around him as the manor’s roof caved in with a thunderous boom, and cradled his friend to his chest, tears streaming down his soot-streaked face. “Put an end to his misery,” he repeated, rubbing his hand gently on her husband’s forehead, his voice cracking. He was in despair. There was something haunted about it; a kind of strange and resigned peace. Valerie had come to realize how needed this language was—increasingly fearful of the same death that awaited them. She knew she would kill them. The doctor knew that too. It was by no means easy, but it was not terrible either.
“Why?” she asked. Something was weakening within her. She was not sure why she asked the question. She did not know if she cared for an answer, either. Perhaps, it had happened all her life, this waiting for an answer, of being sealed by wonder. A slate of radiance had fallen on their hands, their twisted bodies, around their heads, too bright and ominous for early morning.
“He won’t live much longer anyway. Vertigo Peaks is no more, and Ethan will be dust with it. Everybody knows. You were the final sacrifice.”
She lowered her gaze, and a sharp chill settled deep between her bones. She saw it now: the prayers, legs curled and tears soaking through the sheet. The townspeople were on their knees for the house. They wanted an heir so she could wither and perish by her husband’s hand. It was foolish of her to dream of dull days and dreamless nights, to make it through the year and avoid longing.
The hollows of her feet were aching. When the doctor held Ethan in his arms, Valerie could see the top of his head, the dark tumble of his hair. The dark breadth of him beneath the licking flames was wintry—drab and bare. They were holding each other close in the growing dawn, Vertigo Peaks burnt, the footfall of the townspeople rumbling thunderously. What was left that could hold her back? A voice in the distance said something, she could not make it out, and the surrounding hollows echoed with cries.
Only then did she notice the glint of the scalpel. The blade was clean, a tarnished silver, and she snatched it without thinking. She did not ask herself what she could do; the question was inconsequential. She looked at her husband’s blood-red eyes, the luminous purple of dawn flickering on the deep furrow between his brows. She should remember the soft melody of birds, overwhelmed by the approaching steps of the townspeople, yet still beautiful. The back of her knee scraped on the stone walls of the house, and murmurs of Mircalla floated in her ear. Mircalla. She was permanent, coming upon her with no whispers of what she had not done. Mircalla. She would sit there and wait for hours to be called by her. To be wanted by her.
She could see herself now, timid beyond measure, stealthy in her evening dress, desperate and filled with an intense desire to fill a place that was never emptied, to please. It came too late for her, the confidence and righteousness of her love.
She turned the steel handle of the scalpel in the flat palm of her hand, pressing the metal hard. She was about to drag her husband by the hair to a secluded corner, but changed her mind, her hand in midair, and pulled the doctor’s hair instead. The sight of him brought back the feel of anger and resentment—or more importantly, vengeance—as she plunged the scalpel on his tongue, again and again and again. He stirred and turned his head, but did not block the blade. A trickle of warm blood slowly ran down, making a small puddle at her feet, soaking her hands. He was still holding Ethan, hanging over him like a bird of prey, nearly suffocating him. She was violently pulling on his tongue, inserting the scalpel into his mouth, and it eventually was ripped from its base. The blood seeped, then shined, then spilled from the edges of her husband’s face and a low murmur buzzed through the wind.
